


leave it all to fate then

by vernesatlas



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: 1917, Alternate Universe, Angst (?????), Blakefield, Fate, Fluff, Gay, Help, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I have no idea, M/M, Missed Opportunities, Pining, Slow Burn, WW2, Yearning, historically accurate???????, i was bored, im going blind, soft, spelling sucks, the writer is sleep deprived, will i continue this fic, will they get together or will they just smile awkwardly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24578965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vernesatlas/pseuds/vernesatlas
Summary: in which tom blake and william schofield meet again seven years after world war 2, and the pining starts.orit all happened because of a train
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	1. june 6 1944

**Author's Note:**

  * For [female dean charles chapman because she's so hot](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=female+dean+charles+chapman+because+she%27s+so+hot).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi this was very spontaneous please do not mind me i wanted some of that gay pining and yearning and hurting i am a sadist.  
> some background of the story if you are confused:  
> -(this chapter only) is set in ww2, other chapters are post ww2, seven years later to be exact (ha i can count)  
> -tom and will's ages in 1944 are 19 and 21 respectively. (okay i changed will's age bc of later reasons) add seven to each of them and what do you get? i don't know because im gay and cant do maths  
> -this chapter is about d day, they're in the 3rd infantry division and they're about to storm a beach on Caen, Normandy called Sword Beach.  
> -my grammar left my body so if my sentences does not make sense, shhh. that shits embarrassing.
> 
> SO  
> ENJOY IT
> 
> PLEASE
> 
> AND BE NICE IN THE COMMENTS

Will saw the grey clouds looming overhead and knew that it was a bad sign.

He was not superstitious, not at all, and though he was raised to be religious he never believed in a God, or any for that matter.

But the grey clouds bothered him, a nagging warning settling in the back of his brain, like it was reminding him to remember something. Will pushed it aside. He would stress about it later, he decided, grey clouds were hardly his main concern in the face of the situation now.

He looked at the men around him, their faces gaunt with a sort of hollowness Will was all too familiar with. There was no spark in their eyes, almost no hope left. It was hard to believe that a week ago they were reveling in the victory of the Allies entering Rome. Now the men who were laughing and jostling were the silent ones, hands clasped in prayer or of nerves, no one knows. News has become scarce, and those which eventually do come through were nothing more than reports of how many days they have left.

Most of their faces were unfamiliar to Will, but not because they were new. Will was one of the first ones drafted into the 3rd Infantry Division, and he used to know all the men, bantered with them like brothers. But soon he knew what it was like to hold a person’s bleeding body in his arms, saying useless words in attempt to comfort them, being forced to watch the life leave their eyes.

So Will shut himself off, never offering more than a sentence to those who arrived, fresh-faced, full of stupidly instilled hope and determination.

There was hardly any of the men he knew left; those who were still here had similarly shut themselves off from the others, silently watching the younger ones slowly losing their faith, not having the heart to tell them that soon the patriotic ideals that they had grow up learning would fade to make way for the sole thirst for survival.

They had learned, very soon, that the tiniest flicker of hope could very much kill you.

Mud squelched next to Will, then a shadow dropped over him. The figure sat, his every movement loud in the quiet of the men.

_And yet, not all men…_

Tom Blake squinted at the sky, shook his head and said, “Bloody horrible weather.”

He looked at Will, gave a knowing look, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

Not all men, indeed. Tom Blake was the most stupidly hopeful and determined soldier in the crowd of the stupidly hopeful and determined soldiers. He was cheerful, always; and quiet, never. His energy was unmatched, the source of his unending hope a mystery to everyone.

When all the men had lost their faith, their hope and their stupid dreams of returning to their wives and children, Blake’s faith never wavered. He was the only person to still smile unironically, the only person who would still chuckle and make jokes.

The question of why Blake had stuck to Will like a flea was never answered. Will was the most shut off, remote, and borderline emotionless man of all. Blake had badgered him since his first day, and never gave up, even when Will glared at him with enough coldness that lesser men would avert their eyes and mumble weak apologies. Soon enough, when it was clear that there was no escaping him, Will finally let part of his wall crumble, just enough for Blake to put his head through.

And Blake never left.

And so, when the corner of Blake’s mouth quirked, just a little, the thoughts that ran through Will’s mind were such:

  * he has a nice smile
  * I like his smile
  * his lips
  * hmm…
  * his lips
  * his goddamned lips
  * shit



Will was eternally grateful that nobody could read minds.

And now Blake was talking about something… complaining about the weather. He was trying to distract Will and the others, and it was working on Will… in a way.

“…well, at least it’ll give us cover.” Blake finished his rant with a ridiculously optimistic note. He looked back down to meet Will’s eyes, and for a moment Will could only see his bright blue eyes, shining in the dreary landscape.

And Blake looked away, and Will blinked.

Monty, their commanding officer, had stood, a cigarette clamped between his lips, hand searching inside his pocket for a lighter. Finally fishing it out, he lit it and soon puffs of smoke rose.

Monty was very cautious with his cigarettes, and it was by the fact that he was carelessly smoking his possibly last one, that Will knew he didn’t expect them to succeed.

“Right,” Monty said, and with another puff he continued, “We’ve been through this loads of time. You know what to do. I want the 8 Brigade Group down to Sword by eleven. The 185 and 9 do not move until you hear the signal. If any of you overeager fucks come down earlier by a minute I swear to God…”

“And do try to win this.” He looked at the faces of the hard-worn men, and Will might have described him as sorrowful in that moment.

Monty opened his mouth, then shut it again, shaking his head. And he sat down again, clouding himself behind the smoke.

Many men stared at his cigarette longingly, but Will was never a smoker, so instead he stared at the rising puffs of grey smoke, so fitting for the half-dead landscape, almost blending into the grey dirt, the grey land, the grey sky.

Will looked up again, staring at the unmoving grey clouds. They stare back at him. Unease creep down his spine, and a hand on his shoulder jolted him from his worrying.

Blake was looking at him, with a mixture of strange expressions that Will couldn’t quite place.

“We will get through this, you know,” he said, softly, close to Will’s ear.

Last words before a landing were never easy. You don’t know what to say. Too much of that foolish hope and the faith of men would be re-ignited – just to be put out hours later when the blood starts staining your shirt. Too much of that honest truth and the primal, survival part of men would take control, fear winning against courage, until you are crying for home and your mother.

So it was better to say silent. Encouragement was not necessary; the silence was horrible but better than words.

Will learned to never believe in any optimistic comments, but the way Blake said it, with that certainty, that spark in his blue eyes, Will let himself have faith.

Faith, the long forgotten feeling, the one thing he fought to keep at bay; ignited in him by the smiling, blue-eyed man.

“I know,” Will replied.

Blake smiled again, full of hope and sadness, but a smile nonetheless.

Grey clouds loomed overhead, and for once Will took no notice to it, for all he could see was the smile on a young hopeful face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TRIED TO BE AS HISTORICALLY ACCURATE AS POSSIBLE.  
> some time logistics are not exactly accurate to the events. i will not say which bc it's not important haha. you wouldn't notice except if you memorised the exact order and time of events that happened in june 1944, or if you're a time traveler from june 1944 then hello, how are you?  
> eh but here some fun history facts:  
> -monty is bernard montgomery, the senior british army officer who led operation overlord, which is the cool code name of soldiers rushing onto beaches. the monty here is based very loosely on him, i just took his name and ran with it. i have no idea what's he like or if he even smokes or if he cusses like that, so if the time traveler is here can you tell me what he's like im curious.  
> -the brigade groups mentioned are real. i have no idea if they were deployed like that but im not a soldier from ww2 so i'll never know unless the time traveler once again tells me.  
> -ww2 was a world war that happened world wide which meant the whole world was warring.  
> -i have no history facts any more but here is a fact which is: YOU ARE AN AMAZING HUMAN BEING AND I THINK YOU DESERVE TO KNOW THAT BECAUSE YOU JUST READ THE FIRST CHAPTER OF THIS FIC AND THAT'S PRETTY DAMN BRAVE OF YOU.
> 
> ok bye i have to sleep ugh annoying right why cant i be a non-sleeping bat


	2. the train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE DAMN TRAIN
> 
> that was random sorry
> 
> props to my mom for inspiring this chapter  
> this was also the chapter that i envisioned first and made me write this whole damn fic, so say thank you to this chapter

Will was going to be late.

It wasn’t exactly true; the clock in the middle of the terminal said otherwise – he still had at least half an hour left. But Will was anxious; he ran through horrible and unrealistic scenarios through his brain, and checked the large bulletin board on the wall of the terminal, confirming that the train indeed is on time, though it did nothing to calm his nerves.

He was going to Thornbury to seal a large deal with a wealthy American businessman who had said that he was “interested” in buying five Bentleys, but refused to settle for a price, and it was up to Will to convince him.

Will scratched his collar idly. He had no idea why a man would buy several cars at once, but it was not his concern. His concern was whether he could make him make up his mind in less than three days.

Smoke poured in the station, billowing onto the dreary London sky, and Will’s impatience died down at the sight of the great green locomotive pulling into the station.

Hefting his briefcase, Will stood from where he sat on a bench and made his way to the train, perhaps slowly, because for all his impatience he was not keen to spend three days in a shadowy inn, consumed by thoughts of how to negotiate with a stubborn man.

Sighing, Will turned to hand his briefcase to the porter.

And just, he saw him, the back of a young man framed by the grey smoke.

Tom Blake.

That was what he thought immediately, the silhouette so strikingly familiar to the one he saw, years ago, paired with the grey landscape of the warzone. He could have sworn it was him, _of course it was him_ , he knew exactly how the shape of his body, the shape of his hair, how his outline cut.

But it was not him. It couldn’t be. Because he was gone, missing, and there was no way in hell he could be standing in a train terminal in Watford.

“You going or not?”

The bark from the porter shook Will from his thoughts. He stared to see that most of the doors along the train have been closed. He was really going to be late if he kept standing there staring at the back of a random person.

“Sorry, sorry,” Will mumbled. Climbing upon the train, the porter shut the door behind him, and the whistles sounded, the train slowly grinding into motion.

He shook his head. He must have been hallucinating, or something. Or simply he had mistaken someone else. It was not him.

_But what if…?_

Will quickly squashed the hopeful voice down. He couldn’t trust in it anymore.

Just then, Will passed the window by the aisle, and it was in that moment, when he just so happened to peer outside the open window, he saw a face.

 _His_ face.

Tom Blake’s surprised face quickly shifted into a jubilant expression, and Will could only stand, stupidly stock-still, in the aisle of the train, as he watched Blake starting to jog along the train, trying to keep up.

The train gained momentum, pulling forward. Grey smoke clouded around Blake, like he was an apparition from a hazy dream. Just before the train left him behind, he said a word that Will barely caught among the whistling of the wind.

“Will.”

And the train pulled around a corner, leaving behind the young man with a name on his lips, the grey smoke finally enveloping him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyy short-ish chapter   
> but lots of symbolism if you get what i mean  
> and lots of hidden meaning (accidental hidden meanings lmao i didn't think too deep when i was drafting it but then when i wrote it everything kind of fitted perfectly. so tip for writers out there: DONT THINK TOO DEEP WHEN YOU'RE WRITING unless you're creating a whole ass universe then think deep)  
> and it turned out surprisingly good!


	3. blakes rd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> damn im sorry for not updating sooner but school just resumed and everything is a shitshow  
> GOD.  
> anyway.  
> DSKJJKDASJADSK  
> okay

Tom often does things on a whim, and it was also on a whim that he found himself in Thornbury, wandering the streets aimlessly, partly because he was too engrossed in the details of his surroundings, mostly because Tom’s whims have no plan nor reason.

It had all happened so quickly; he first saw Schofield’s face peering out from the carriage window, and suddenly Tom was running, in some stupid hope that he would catch up to the train, and maybe just because he wanted to catch a longer glimpse of Will’s face. But, of course, the train did not miraculously stop, nor did he suddenly gain super-speed and could grab on by the handles of the door. The train merely pulled ahead into the grey mist, leaving Tom behind with his hand through his hair and a stupid smile upon his face.

Then it was clear what he had to do. Tom, without any second of hesitation, bought a ticket to Thornbury after a quick consultation with the porter. He boarded the train with a hopeful demeanor and got off with a spring in his step, and now stood in gravel streets, finally remembering that he had no idea where Schofield had gone.

Still, that did not halt Tom. He was still in good spirits when he spotted a street sign that directed to “Blakes Road”. Tom found this overly amusing, and quickly crossed the crosswalk to, well, _his_ road.

In his hurry, he did not look up as he bumped into a figure.

“Sorry,” Tom said, turning sideways to catch a quick glance at the stranger and to offer an apologetic smile.

_Fate certainly had a few tricks up its sleeves._

For the stranger turned out to be not anybody, but William Schofield.

Tom once again was reduced to shock, and was silently, profusely thanking his good luck. Schofield was rather occupied with the clasp on his briefcase, which had popped open from their collision.

Tom let out an incredulous laugh. Schofield finally stopped worrying at the clasp and looked up.

Surprise dawned on his face, along with an expression like he had seen a ghost. For a while Schofield only stared at him with this mixture of emotions, and for quite a while that lasted, and Tom started to be concerned whether Schofield’s state of health was fine.

“Blake?” Tom said, pointing at himself, “Thomas Blake? 3rd Infantry Division?”

Schofield’s speech ability was still temporarily impaired, as he opened and closed his mouth several times, as if failing to remember what speaking was like.

Tom laughed, not out of spite, but because everything that had happened in the recent twelve hours seemed surreal and something out of a crazy dream.

Scho finally said, softly, like he was encountering a rare animal that would disappear if he made loud sounds, “Blake.”

Tom cracked a smile, “That’s me.”

“But you-” he shook his head, then continued again, “you were gone.”

Tom poked himself.

“Nope,” he said, “still here.”

Scho shook his head again, as if failing to comprehend the information.

“You were – that day – the – ” he pointed at Tom and then in a generally confusing direction.

Then, screwing his eyebrows together, he leaned forward as if to inspect Tom in closer detail.

“You’re – real?”

Tom might have laughed, but he saw how serious and concerned Will looked, and only offered a soft grin, and his arm.

“Go ahead,” he said.

Scho, sort of tentatively, as though careful not to disturb sleeping ghosts in the air, reached forward and laid a whisper-soft touch on his arm.

When Tom neither disappeared or broke under his touch, Scho dared to actually rest his hand on his arm.

Tom could just feel the slight warmth from his hand through the thin material of his shirt, and could feel where Scho’s skin lightly grazed him by the opening in the cuff of his sleeve.

“You’re real,” Scho breathed, and Tom could almost see something lifting off his shoulders, a sort of dread and premonition fading away.

“I’m real.”

Scho’s hand gave a slight squeeze of his arm, and fell away.

Now that Tom was no longer occupied by his long-lost friend doubting his existence, he could see that Scho was clad in a neat suit and tie, like a proper businessman.

Tom’s first thought was: he’s tall.

Which was ridiculous, because Scho was always taller than him, by an inch or two. He could just rest his head on the crook of his neck; he knew because on one summer afternoon on watch, he had woken up with his head resting on Scho’s shoulder. Not, in any way, that he had ever thought of doing that again, of course.

And his hair – did he grow his hair out? It was slightly longer, ruffled and grazing the top of his collar. Tom had half a mind to reach out to touch his hair, which was _ridiculous, Tom, what on earth are you thinking??_

Standing before Scho, he felt slightly nervous. He was tall and smartly dressed, while Tom had barely grown an inch or more since they had last seen each other, and he was just dressed in the same jacket he had for years.

Scho, in turn, was looking at him too, but with a much more incredulous and doubting expression, as though not thoroughly convinced that he was real. Tom was studiously aware of his stare, and now wondered if he had even wore his shoe properly (Tom had a bad habit of barely being able to get out his front door in one piece on mornings).

“Scho,” Tom said, the first time in seven years saying that name. Suddenly he realized that he had called him by Will instead of Schofield back in the station; in the heat of the moment, he had excitedly cried out his first name instead. All these years, it had been Schofield, or Scho, but never William, much less Will.

“Scho” tasted sort of funny in his mouth. It was sort of like a name long forgotten being dug from the depths of his memory and called to be remembered, and now it didn’t quite fit like it did before.

Schofield met his eyes.

_Ah, his eyes._

It had been seven years. Tom could remember the colour of his eyes, if he concentrated, but nothing could have prepared him for the blueness, the intensity, and the overall realness of those deep blue eyes.

Tom dragged his stare away.

“Let’s go for a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did this on a time limit and i was massively rushing while rock music harmed my eardrums, so if this chapter was good then i shall have to write the rest of the chapters in such method. if it was bad then i shall listen to mozart.  
> not complaining. wolfgang is a good musician, i guess.  
> JOKES ASIDE.  
> um. i hope you liked this one haha  
> if you didn't i will be very sad and also very angry, but mostly angry.  
> OKAY BYE


	4. memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JDASJASDNJDSN   
> I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS

What happened next was sort of hazy to Will.

He recalled walking alongside Blake, nodding while he animatedly talked about sheep and how people were prejudiced against them. He did not remember much of what he said, nor did he remember how exactly they had gotten to the pub. 

Will had not dared to tear his gaze away from Blake, out of fear that if he had looked away, even for just a second, he would immediately disappear.

And Will was still afraid, sitting in the rowdy pub with a pint of beer in front of him. He still feared that he was somehow hallucinating, even though he had touched Blake's arm, had felt his skin, his warmth. Blake still felt like something out of his feverish imaginations, something that had came back to haunt him after so many guilt-filled years.

He had half a mind to grab a nearby patron and ask them whether Blake was real, if they could see him too. But after considering the consequences of being called a lunatic he only kept his mouth shut, and his eyes still inexplicably trained on the excited young man before him.

"— and Myrtle —you know my dog Myrtle?— she's getting old now, bless her. It's no easy feat for her to be barking away, after a litter of her pups got sent away to my aunt in Cavendish."

Here he paused, glanced upon Will with a sort of embarrassed air and a daringly charming smile.

"I'm chattering on too fast, aren't I? I tend to be a bit annoying when I'm excited."

Will shook his head and reassured him that he did not find him the least bit annoying.

And he meant it, for it had been seven years now, since he had last heard the youthful voice of Thomas Blake, and heard him going on a spiel in his amiable fashion. Will must admit he had never felt any slightest sense of annoyance at his companion's words, no matter now or then.

He recalled sitting damp and shivering in the dugouts, the feeble flame from the oil light casting the dreary grey into a smudged faint yellow, and the vibrant voice of Tom Blake, telling the other men amusing stories. Will remembered the way the men leaned forward to capture more of Blake's voice, attracted to his voice and the words that spilled out of it, like moths to a light. Will himself —the loner, the silent sentinel who never exchanged more than a word— found himself craving to hear more about those stories, acting indifferent but always tilting his head so he could hear more of his voice, but most of all, the charismatic owner of the voice.

Will rather missed his voice, with a sort of fondness that Will knew to be rather stupid (for how could you be fond of someone's voice in such a way?), and it was with this fondness —and an unexplainable sadness— that he listened to his voice, not much hearing and comprehending his words but merely drowning his ears in Blake's lilted voice, the way he skimmed over consonants, and the overfilling joy and carefreeness to which his voice was accented with.

"What had brought you here to Thornbury?" Blake asked, finally breaking Will's spiral of thoughts.

Will tapped his fingers on the leather of his briefcase. 

"Business, unfortunately," he replied, "I'm working for Bentley Motors now, and there is this client, an American, who had hooked us on with the promise of purchase but backed out on the price, so it's up to me to convince him."

To his surprise, Blake only offered an interested smile and a slight lift of his eyebrows, as though he had encountered something perplexing. 

"What?" 

Blake shook his head, eyebrows still lifted. He offered a casual "Nothing" and drank his beer.

Will glared at him.

He shook his head again, that small interested smile still upon his face.

"I just never thought that you'd been working in a car company."

Will didn't know how to make of that. Should he be affronted? But to be truthful, if someone had told the Will three years ago that he would soon be selling cars that he couldn't afford to people, he would have laughed and made fun. But here he was, selling cars that he couldn't afford to people. 

"What did you think I would be doing?"

Blake shrugged. "I've always thought you would be writing."

Now it was Will's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Writing?" he said with an incredulous smile. "How did you know that I write?"

Blake smirked, slightly. "I think I read one of your poems, one time."

Will, who was drinking his beer, almost spat out the drink. 

" _What."_

Blake's smirk was growing wider. And to Will's horror, he started to recite out loud one of his poems.

" _I longed to wander among the stars/_

_what mysteries do they hold by the "_

Will clamped a hand over Blake's mouth, his ears burning from embarrassment, anger and mostly embarrassment.

"Shut up!" he hissed, releasing his hand, which was an ill choice, for Blake had started to laugh uproariously.

Will hid his face under the pretence of drinking his beer, sure that the space behind his ears were on fire. He didn't dare look at Blake anymore; how could you look in the eyes of someone who had read your poem without wanting to crawl in a hole and disappear?

Soon Blake managed to stifle his laughter enough to compose a straight face, but a grin on his face and the glimmer in his eyes spoke of mischief.

"Sorry," he said, his grin still stupidly intact, still unbelievably charming.

Will kicked him under the table as an acknowledgement, which Blake took with a feigned expression of pain.

Soon Blake started off in a spiel about a time when he fell into a lake, rather enthusiastically. Will knew that he meant to put him at ease, to give him time to compose himself, which Will was grateful for.

"What brings you here, then," Will said, after he no longer felt like hiding under the table.

"My brother, Joe _—_ you remember him? _—_ he lives here, in Thornbury, and he came to Watford to visit the family," Tom waved vaguely to indicate the broad range of his family, "and I was sending him off in the station." 

"What are you up to?" Will asked. He was sort of dubious whether Blake had acquired a job; not because he didn't have the ability to do so, but because it seems sort of weird to imagine _Thomas Blake_ working in an office, sitting behind a desk, and generally being focused on something for more than 3 minutes.

Blake shrugged, teetered his fingers back and forth. "Anything, really. Not much to do, did a couple summer jobs in a pharmacy, a bookstore." He shrugged. "They don't work out, in the end, but there's nothing else to do, is there?" 

"College?" Will vaguely remembered him saying he dropped out of one to be enlisted. 

Blake pulled a face. "My mum always tries to get me back in, but I reckon there's really not much to it, is there? Just droning on about things that we needn't necessarily learn, and most probably wouldn't use." He shook his head. "And entitled pricks trying to get me kicked out."

Blake smiled, widening his eyes in earnest. "Wouldn't you rather really go out there? See it all? Wouldn't that be exciting?"

Will couldn't stop smiling at the look on his face: the pure and unspoiled hope of a person with his future still brightly illuminated.

His smile... 

And suddenly Will was back on that beach, back to that day in June 1944, and all the lights gave way to dreary greyness. 

Will laid behind a mound of splintered wood. The pulse of the seawater crashing on the shore was loud in his ears, the wetness of his canvas gear clinging to him, the smell of the beach _—_ seawater, metallic tang of machinery _—_ burned his senses. If he turned, he knew, he would see the body of his sergeant, and countless many more lifeless eyes. Will kept his eyes trained in front of him instead. 

And Tom Blake, beside him; Tom Blake, who was young, but did not seem scared at all; if he did, he did a good job of not showing it. 

Will took a breath, maybe two. He could hardly feel his fingers, and he flexed them to make sure they were working. The humidness of the June air clung to them, weighted down by the gear on him, and if Will kept very still he was able to count the drops of water dripping down their faces. 

There was a signal _—_ Will was not clear, but he saw the men in front of him moving, and sort of senselessly, he moved too, rushing forwards, through the mess of bodies, barbed wire, the debris of the battle. The crackling of guns sounded above him, but Will did not stop, he kept moving, kept running.

There was a blast _—_ Will saw the land in front of him, maybe 50 yards or so, erupt in smoke, billowing out, and most of all he saw the bodies the blast threw, high into the air, like dolls, like little toys...

There was a cry _—_ they knew what it meant, and they all smacked to the ground so hard their gear bounced against their backs.

Will breathed again. He would not lie and say he was not afraid, but he must not show it, no matter how hard his heart pounded. He turned sideways to see Blake crouching behind a large piece of metal _—_ maybe from a tank, maybe from a ship _—_ his eyes were bright, still, and Will almost laughed, at the surreality of everything. _I must be going mad_ , Will thought, just as another blast issued behind them. 

There was a beat, then a silence. 

Then they both heard a cry, a soft groan of pain, and a man stumbled past them, holding his stomach, his knees almost buckling. He dropped to the sand, his gear clattering off him, and he pried at his uniform, as if to peel it away, letting another groan of pain.

Will knew, then, he knew immediately what happened, and he knew that it was no use to try to go to him.

But Blake, oh Blake, young heart he has, and kind, he was. He did not hesitate, did not show the slightest fear, as he rushed to the injured man. Will, for a moment, wanted to call him back, tell him it was no use, but his mouth was dry and his words swallowed.

This moment would come back to haunt Will for the next few years.

Blake coaxed the man, helped him peel away his clothing, said low words of useless hope, his voice soothing and calm. The man let out a low sound of pain, hands uselessly grappling at his blood-soaked clothes. The wound was gaping and spanned across the stomach, probably from shrapnel _—_ Will shuddered as he thought about the metal lodged inside of the man's body _—_ it was apparent that there was nothing that they could do for him; here in the middle of the beach, the nearest medic either too far away or too occupied with other injuries.

Blake knew, Will guessed, but that didn't stop him from murmuring low encouragements to the man, from draining drops of water onto the wound.

"Can you stand?" Blake's voice drifted to Will. Blake stood, trying to support the man by propping him up from under his shoulders. The man, however, had fallen unconscious, and Blake could only drag him across the sand for a foot or two before giving up.

Blake looked up, just a glance, and caught Will's eyes. 

Will knew, in that moment, that he would forever remember the blueness of Blake's eyes, the intensity and the sheer determination inside of those pools of blue. 

For a moment, strange and out-of-place peace washed over Will, then, just as suddenly, dread _—_ horrible, overwhelming dread _—_ flooded in, and the grey clouds he had seen before flashed in Will's mind. 

There was a sharp crack _—_ and Blake gave a cry, his hand going to his stomach, his pupils suddenly contracting. Will could not quite remember himself running over, but he was crouching next to Blake next, his hand pressing against the warm blood flowing from the wound, hearing Blake's strangled breathing, crying for a medic, quick, a medic, and he might have been screaming, he was not sure, he was not sure any more, he could only feel the warmness of the blood coating his hand, and he was aware of Blake's fingers touching his fingertips, could hear him say something barely indiscernible. 

... And there was a voice, clear now, calling his name...

Will opened his eyes, the light flaring brightly as he adjusted his gaze. A face loomed over him, the same person calling his name... Will blinked once, twice, and could just make out the outline of Blake's boyish features. 

"Scho," he said, again and again, and Will gradually saw the details of his face come into focus.

 _He must be dreaming..._ The light behind Blake glowed so brightly, like a halo, further confirming that Will was still dreaming. _There was no reason that he's still alive. Not after the blood, not after what happened..._

"Can you hear me?" Dream-Blake was now saying, concernedly. 

Will grinned, blearily. _How nice was it, to have him get so concerned over him!_ _Oh well, even though it's in a dream_. 

"Scho?" he said again. 

Will felt strangely calm, and couldn't help as laughter bubbled out from his mouth. 

Blake grew even more concerned. He turned to the side, and said to someone, "Is he alright?"

Will knew that he was alright, he was perfectly fine. What a nice dream this was! He reached out his hand, until his fingertips grazed the cheek of Blake. He was surprisingly warm and so real, and Will could certainly be convinced that he was not dreaming. 

Blake, startled by his touch, turned to him, his eyes widened. He rest the back of his hand on his forehead, as if to check his temperature. Will closed his eyes at his touch, almost leaned into it, into the warmth of his hand.

"Sho," Blake's voice made his eyelids fly open.

Will blinked. 

"I'm not dreaming, am I?"

Blake shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WORKED ON THIS FOR SO LONG LMAO  
> I EVEN WROTE A DRAFT  
> GOD BLESS  
> GOODBYE  
> I AM  
> TIRED


	5. past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HELLO IM BACK HEHEHHEHEHE   
> do you guys still remember me? 🥺  
> i was busy bc of my finals and a lot of hectic shit but now im GOOD.  
> i have no idea why i capitalised good  
> anyways enjoy!!!

Tom glanced at his companion, his fair head bowed, figure slanting like a young tree in the wind, lashes lowered.

Scho had frightened the shit out of him when he dropped to the floor, eyes shut, mouth clenched in a grimace, and failed to answer his many cries of “Scho!”. But it was sort of fortunate that he couldn’t hear him, now that Tom thought about it, since he remembered himself making some sort of embarrassing strangled sob when he saw Scho in such a state.

And soon, after Scho accepted a glass of water, they trooped out of the pub, Scho looking disoriented, as if he couldn’t quite recall where he was.

Tom kept his mouth shut. He didn’t dare to confuse Scho any further, though he was bursting to ask if he was okay, and most of all, to ask him what had disturbed him so much.

Scho tilted his head upwards, studying the sky, and Tom, for a moment, was struck by the stark contrast of the fair colour of his eyelashes against the grey of the skies.

Scho turned his head, quite suddenly, to him, and asked, “Can you tell me what happened? After that day.”

Tom didn’t have to ask what day he was referring to. The day which he almost died, the day which he should’ve died, but somehow fate caught him neatly by his collar, dangling him just a few inches away from death.

“What do you want to know?”

Scho shrugged. His eyebrows were scrunched in concentration, blue eyes dark, lips setting into a firm line. He was trying to work something out, he knew, he saw that expression ages ago, by the dim lighting in the dugouts. “Everything.”

Tom took a breath. He didn’t know where to start. It was easy to spin amusing tales that he knew, to charm people by his witty words, but this was largely different. He was asked to talk about the day he had mostly forced to the back of his mind for so long.

But this was Scho. He deserved to know. Tom remembered the shock, the disbelief, and the denial Scho displayed when he first seen him, thinking that he was some sort of imagination. For seven years now. God. _Seven years._

He remembered what Scho asked him, not more than an hour ago:

_I’m not dreaming, am I?_

So Tom took another breath, and started somewhere.

After that crack of bullet firing, after it found its mark in his stomach, Tom could not quite remember much, except that Scho was screaming, his hand clasping his so tightly it hurt. Then he remembered the sensation of being carried, of being lifted. He recalled seeing a hint of blue sky peeking through grey clouds through his bleary vision, and then nothing else.

Next he heard voices, saying something about penetration and fragments and the sound of wheels skimming over tiles, before he slipped back into unconsciousness. When he woke up he was in a hospital, white surroundings glaring. Faces were looming over him, and a doctor asked if he could hear him, and Tom barely managed a nod. Then he said something about a surgery, and Tom could hardly hear him then, but he must have made a response, because then the doctor said, “Good.” and Tom slipped into a dark oblivion.

When he woke up next a nurse told him that he was now in a field hospital in Bayeux. He asked if he was going to die. The nurse smiled, and told him that he would live after all. If Scho was not beside him, if he had not helped him and called for medic, it would have meant him losing his life. 

He was lucky, the nurse told him. Many men would have bled to death in less fortunate circumstances.

Tom didn’t know how lucky he was, for he was confined to his bed for two weeks. He could hardly move, for if his feet touched the ground even for a second a nurse would be there to herd him back to his bed. Tom tried not to complain, especially after he saw the dark circles underneath the nurses’ eyes.

Soon he struck up conversation with some of the nurses, and a fast friendship formed between Tom and young nurse named Marion. It became a sort of speculation in the wards, as many other patients started teasing Tom for “flirting” with the nurse. But the friendship was formed out of Tom’s loneliness, and Marion’s knack for distracting Tom from his depressive and often intrusive thoughts.

The most frequent thoughts haunting Tom were mostly about the war, about his family, and most of all, about Schofield. He could not help stressing over where his friend was, could not help wondering and imagining the worst situations possible, most of which Schofield is sprawled cold and dead. He would die, nameless and unmarked, somewhere miles away from his home.

Tom often tried to ignore these thoughts, but it was extremely difficult since he was unable to move outside his bed. Such thoughts would subdued Tom to a period of silence, where he could only stare at the window beside his bed and tried, very hard, not to think of Schofield.

Marion succeeded in distracting him, though. Whenever Tom started to stare out the window, she would know that he was dropping down that depressive chasm again, and quickly found something to occupy him.

Soon Tom knew all about Marion’s family, about how she was in the navy before being situated in this field hospital. She had family back in Birmingham, two sisters and a brother. She talked about amusing tales of her childhood, weaving imageries of summer days besides shimmering lakes and lush greens.

Tom found it quite funny, how he was the person who cheered everyone up, and now he was being cheered up by someone else.

His time in Bayeux soon had come and gone. After three months, he was being airlifted to Portsmouth to an auxiliary hospital. Marion patted his hand and told him firmly that if he ever stopped taking care of himself she would fly to Portsmouth to slap him. Then her face softened. “Your friend is going to be fine, don’t worry.”

Tom swallowed and nodded.

The hospital in Portsmouth, the Royal Hospital Haslar, was a much bigger institution, and the staff there was much more occupied with patients who needed more tending to. Tom was generally left alone, and soon he was prone to wandering through wards to talk to patients to distract himself from his thoughts.

It was scary, the amount of people who have been injured. Tom was not allowed in the emergency wards, but the level of injuries he had seen in non-emergency wards were horrifying enough that he was not at all curious to enter the emergency ones.

There were old soldiers and fresh-faced ones, and most welcomed Tom as a distraction, but Tom did not fail to notice some who stayed silent, faces shut and eyes empty. Tom swore that he would never become like them.

News from the war was not promising. The news that was brought were usually vague and lacked details, and soon Tom knew to avoid knowing anything so that his mind would not make up horrible situations to fill up the unknown details.

The five months soon passed, arduously, and Tom was discharged from the hospital for 5 weeks of convalescence. Tom had made friends with a young man named Oliver Clarke in the same ward, whose family lived in Portsmouth. He was invited to spend his 5 weeks of convalescence in the Clarke residence, which Tom accepted gratefully.

Those five weeks were painful. Maybe it was the thought that he was so far away from his family, or maybe it was the thought that he was so very close to getting back to the battlefield, so very close to finally doing something, that broke Tom. He wandered the house aimlessly, sometimes venting his frustration by kicking the soil in the garden. The gardener finally got fed up with him and told him that he could either help him out or piss off. Tom chose the former.

Soon Tom was venting his frustration by digging excessively deep holes in the garden and planting bulbs. The gardener admired his work though, and offered a gruff “hmm” as encouragement.

However furiously Tom planted his bulbs were not effective against blocking out his depressive thoughts. Most nights he refused to close his eyes so that he would not be pulled in that one moment in which a bullet imbedded in his gut. Tom was also frustrated and angry in addition to his depressiveness. He could not help feeling helpless and utterly useless, stuck in a large house planting flowers while men all over the world fought and gave their lives for their country.

The five weeks dragged on, eternally long and seemingly endless. When it ended Tom was relieved, but also full of dread. He did not have much time to contemplate his feelings when he was dispatched, once again, in Greece, in the midst of the 12th Infantry Brigade.

It was funny, and cruel, how the times of war pass like a blur, as though trying to smudge out the cruelties and the horror of it all. Soon the restless thoughts were overcome by the pure desire for survival, though the nightmares did not stop.

Tom was then greatly subdued, as were all the men, though he did not hesitate to offer a few light stories on especially dark nights. Tom had wanted so desperately to jump back into the line of action, and now that his wish was granted, he could not wait for it to be over. Fate certainly was toying.

But the time passed, however slow it did. There came news of Germany’s surrender, and Tom could have heard the collective exhale from all the men. Smiles reappeared, laughter was heard, banter and jokes reignited. There was talk of what they were going to do once they returned home, and men who were previously morose and shut off started to talk of their sons, their daughters and wives.

Tom smiled and laughed along with them. He did miss his family terribly, but there was also the reminder that he might not see a certain someone even when he returned home.

Tom recounted all his experiences to Schofield, though he left out the parts of him constantly thinking about Scho. He didn’t want him to think of him as a sulky, obsessed person.

Schofield didn’t say much during his recounting, but Tom could see the crease between his brows softening until he no longer resembled a heartsick, pensive hero from the romantic paperbacks Tom’s sister always read.

Scho nodded, once, as though confirming everything.

“I tried to find you,” he said, quietly, finally looking up from his focus on the gravel. “I was told you were somewhere in Bayeux, and a nurse in the field hospital led me to Portsmouth. I think – I think she might have been Marion, though I am not sure.” Tom smiled at the thought of Marion finally meeting Scho, and wondered how badly she would tease him if he saw her now.

“But I couldn’t find you then.” Scho’s voice grew small as his eyes flitted away from Tom. “The hospital was too large, too busy. The records were lost somewhere, and nobody could tell me where you were.”

He looked up, back at Tom, and Tom could have been broken under his gaze, under the heartbrokenness it conveyed.

“I thought you were gone.”

Tom took a step to him, slowly, tentatively, maybe because of the way Scho stood, fragile with his blue eyes swimming.

Without really knowing what he was exactly doing, he reached and held Scho’s hand, slipping his palm inside his companion’s one.

“I’m here now.”

Scho’s eyebrows raised, his eyes suddenly lit with an unreadable sort of emotion. A beat, and the corners of his mouth raised, curving his face into an expression of joy. He squeezed Tom’s hand, lightly, pressing his warmth into Tom’s skin.

And Tom knew, in that moment, he would give anything to see him smile like that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HHEHEHHE  
> did you like it???  
> i didn't mean to end it that way but when i wrote till that part i was like "oh ok so maybe i can end like that too."  
> so overall kind of good!  
> tried to make this as geographically accurate as possible hehe  
> quite liked it bc then we can move on with the yearning and pining and the "oops i've fallen in love with him what do i do now?"  
> originally i wanted to add that marion had a girlfriend back home bc SAPPHICSSS!!! but i left that out bc y'all be like "um ok so??"  
> idk   
> but marion is a sapphic confirmed don't worry.   
> ehh what else did i want to say  
> oh yes pls feel free to imagine scho standing looking up at the sky with his hair all wavy and loose in the wind and his blue eyes real sad like an anime hero   
> that was how i imagined him in this chapter lmaooo  
> anyway yes sure i hope you enjoyed this chapter<333  
> i will update the next chapter asap!!! (i hope)


	6. chocolates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll update more," I said.   
> "I'll be more active from now on," I said.  
> and then i disappeared for a month.  
> IM SORRY.  
> i have nothing to blame except for procrastination (and maybe umbrella academy)  
> i had literally zero motivation when i first started writing this chapter, and i really didnt know how to continue on so i wrote some shit, scrapped it, wrote some shit, scrapped it again, and then wrote some fairly decent shit which is what you read now.   
> i didnt really like the first part of this chapter, but eventually i tweaked it so it was better.   
> anyways. i hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> here's a small excerpt from this chapter as a tease <3  
> " He told Joe so, but Tom had snorted and said, “If you think he can cook, wait till you eat my mother.” "

Will did not know what was it that bothered him so much. Will was not easily irritated – well, not really, he just knew very well how to hide his irritation, but this time he could hardly cover up the twitch of his muscles, the dart of his glances, and how badly he longed to leave. Maybe it was because of the ill-tasted decoration, which, combined with the lack of ventilation, made the house stuffy and Will feeling very trapped and claustrophobic.

A clock ticked loudly and annoyingly above the mantle, reminding Will that he did not have much time left. His eyes flicker from the slow-moving clock hand and discreetly darted to his wristwatch, double-checking that the time was accurate and was not moving particularly slow. Because it seemed that Will had been here for at least 2 hours, but the clock faces told him otherwise. He had spent barely an hour here.

He hoped that the man in front of him did not notice his impatience. But something told him that Ray Walton was not a man who was interested in something that was not, well, Ray Walton himself.

“–– well, he formed the biggest oil empire from then on!” Walton chuckled amiably. “A good Yale man always yields results.”

_ Yale.  _ Right. Walton was a Yale man, and that was one of his favourite topics: himself, Yale, and business.

He extended a hand to the side table, where a bottle of whisky rested. After offering some to Will (to which Will shook his head with what he hoped was a polite smile), he poured a generous amount to his own glass.

“Ah, you said you were an Eton boy?” he asked Will, sipping his whisky.

Will shook his head, “St. Pauls, actually.”

“Hmm,” Walton screwed his face, as if recalling something. Then he shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

Will gritted his teeth, his smile straining to remain intact. He resisted the temptation to throw his cup of tea in his face and leave this suffocating house. Will did not care very much of whether this man knew the fame of the school he studied, but it was maddening how he was so blatantly ignorant of his own ignorance, and, most annoyingly, could still adopt such a superior attitude to everyone else.

Will kept these thoughts to himself, though. He still wore a smile, though his muscles were tired and a headache was slowly emerging. “Well, not most people know it,” he lied, allowing sarcasm to drip into his words.

Walton did not hear the sarcasm. “You really have to study at a well-known school, you know? Connections are important, name and fame are vital.”

Will’s smile turned into a sarcastic one. “Well, I went there for education, not for fame.”

Will immediately knew that he had judged Walton wrongly. He thought he was too self-occupied to notice the bitterness in his tone. But Walton was a veteran in the business industry. He might be arrogant but he knew how to strike deals, how to negotiate, how to shift balances with tones and gestures, though his way was aggressive head-on dealing, without cutting corners and light implications. Will, because of his tiredness and frustration, had slipped past his usual way of being smooth and subtle.

Will can see that Walton noticed. More than that, Will was in danger of losing the deal – completely. The glint in his eyes were unreadable, and for a moment Will, with his tired mind, feared that he would stomp on his foot or throw scalding tea in his face.

Walton only offered a smile, almost diplomatic, and utterly unreadable.

“You’re here to talk business, aren’t you?” Walton’s smile made Will realise that he was not a man to be crossed easily. “Then let’s talk business.”

* * *

Will kicked at the cobblestones at his feet.

Another visit wasted. Another hour wasted. He did not achieve anything today, same as last week. He  _ still  _ could not settle the deal with Walton. The man’s stubbornness was truly admirable. Will blamed himself for his attitude slipping. If he had not been so aggressive maybe, maybe, he would have a sliver of chance. But now that chance was gone. 

Walton had dismissed him again, and though he didn’t shut him off completely, Will understood that there was a line, a limit, and today he almost crossed that line. It would be very,  _ very,  _ hard to convince him now. 

Will scowled, his hand brushing through his hair irritably. What would he say to his manager now?  _ I’m sorry, but I was too stupid and now I need an additional week to convince him even though I said I could do it in a week?  _

He was just promoted to his new position last month, and now he was about to risk losing it. 

_ Forget it, Will.  _ He forced his anxiety to the back of his mind, though it remained, a whisper of fear that he chose not to focus on at the moment. 

His mind started wandering, and somehow his mind focused on Tom Blake. 

They had parted ways last week after Will’s collapsing at the pub. Other people might offer pitying glances or judging gazes, but not Tom. Because he knew what it was like to be in the midst of gunfire, he knew how it was to feel the pressure of the air around you growing tighter, he was  _ there,  _ with him, and most of all he knew how hard it was to come back home, the world changed without you, everything moving forward and you, still stuck in that battlefield, still trying to shake that feeling of helplessness and fear off yourself. 

Tom didn’t judge, he didn’t say much, he only told him what happened after that day on the beach. Will still couldn’t believe that he lived, was shot and still was alive. 

When they parted it was slightly awkward. How was farewell between long-lost friends typically like? A hug seemed too intimate after just reuniting after seven years, a handshake too formal. Will didn’t know the right words to say either.  _ So glad to see that you’re not dead, see you after some indefinite time.  _

Tom had offered a smile, full of his boyish charm and a trace of sweetness that Will was surprised to see. He clapped a hand on Will’s shoulder, while Will only stood stupidly still, sort of confused as to how his limbs worked. 

Tom always had the confidence about him, the assurance that he was exactly where he was supposed to be, and the way he held himself and moved so assuredly impressed Will.

“William?”

Will glanced up, surprised, and realised he had arrived at the boarding inn he was staying at. The matron of the inn, Mrs. Bedford, a gentle but firm widow, was standing at the doorway, drying her hands down the front of her apron. 

“Yes, Mrs. Bedford?” Will replied, walking towards the inn.

“William, dear,” she said with such a maternal air that made Will miss his own mother, “there’s a phone call for you. Just redial.”

“Thanks,” Will said, the anxiety that he had pressed to the back of his mind reignited once again. Certainly it was his manager calling to check on him. Surely this time he cannot hide his incompetence anymore. Surely this time he would be demoted, or worse, fired.

He headed into the hall of the boarding inn, taking up the receiver of the telephone mounted on the wall. He swallowed, hoping to stall a minute or two, then sighed, eventually deciding that he probably should get this over with.

He turned the dial and heard the tinny sound of the line connecting.

“Will.”

Will could just breathe out a sigh of relief and an incredulous “Tom?” before Thomas Blake hurried on.

“Listen, you still got the address I gave you?”

“Yes,” Will said, before patting his pockets to confirm he did have the note. Tom had hurriedly scribbled his brother’s address and given him last week, and said that if he had time he was welcome to come and bother them. 

“Yeah, come over, then,” Tom said, his voice getting a bit distracted, Will could hear.

“Now?’ Will asked stupidly.

“No, come next year,” Tom said sarcastically, before saying, “ _ Yes, now.  _ I’ll see you later.”

And just like that he hung up.

Will stood there, receiver still in his hand, a bit surprised, a bit annoyed, feeling amused, but most definitely feeling much more happier than he had been a few moments ago.

* * *

Half an hour and a bus ride later, Will stood in front of the Blake flat, knuckles raised to knock on the wooden door. Will froze for a moment, then looked down at his attire. He had taken off his jacket almost as soon as he left Walton’s house, but his carefully-ironed shirt, trousers and oxfords made him seem like a fervent door-to-door salesman. Frowning, he loosen the top buttons of his shirt, hoping that he seemed more casual. He rapped his knuckles against the door, and there were some pattering footsteps nearing, some muffled voices, and the door swung open to reveal a young man. 

He was perhaps slightly older than Will by a year or two. He was young and handsome enough to pass as someone in his mid-twenties, though the maturity in his eyes suggested he was nearing thirty. His eyes lit up, and he smiled. “Will! So glad you came!”

Will was fairly surprised. “You know me?”

Tom’s brother grinned. “Of course I do. The annoying bastard would not shut up about you.” Will heard a sound of indignant come from inside the apartment, and guessed that Tom was the cause of it. 

“Joe Blake,” Joe said, his easy smile instantly making Will like him. “I would shake your hand, but I was just cooking, and…” He showed his hands, which was caked in flour. “Come on in!”

Will offered a smile, a genuine one, and moved to enter the flat. Joe shut the door behind him, and Will handed him a box of chocolates he had bought from a sweet shop a couple blocks. “I got something for you.”

Joe’s eyes widened, but before he could say something a figure swooped out of nowhere and with a cry of “Chocolates!”, grabbed the box from Will’s hands. 

Tom Blake hopped on the kitchen counter and deftly unwrapped the chocolate box, grinning. “William Schofield, you are now my favourite person,” he said, winking at him. 

Will smirked, while Joe shook his head, exasperated with his younger brother. He plucked the box from his hands just as Tom was about to stuff his mouth with another piece. “It’s almost lunch,” he said sternly, placing it inside the highest cabinet. 

Tom pouted. Joe turned to Will and said in a loud whisper, “I put it there because he’s not tall enough to reach it.”

Will could not restrain his laughter, while Tom whacked Joe across the back of his head. 

“I should introduce you two,” Tom said, before exaggeratedly gesturing to Will with a flair of his wrist. “Joe, this is Will, he’s very smart and he hates talking to people, except for me, because I’m too damn amazing to ignore.” He winked at Will, flashing a cocky smile. Will snorted, while Joe made a tired expression that suggested pain. 

“And, Will, this is Joe, my nanny,” Tom said in a pleasant voice, before ducking with a welp from Joe’s well-aimed hit. 

Will could not help smiling at this brotherly exchange. Side-by-side, he could see the resemblance in the two brothers. They shared the same auburn hair, the blue eyes, the easy demeanor that made everyone like them. But Joe’s face was sharper and he had the solemn, trustworthy quality that Tom did not possess. Tom was playful and carefree, and his round and youthful features made him seem so free and light-hearted.

Tom started poking around in Joe’s cooking, and soon Joe kicked them out of the kitchen and into the living room.

“So,” Tom said, plopping into an armchair. 

Will raised an eyebrow. 

“What did you think?”

“Of your brother?” Will asked. “I think he’s much more tolerable than you.”

Tom’s leg darted out to kick at Will’s ankle, though it was half-hearted. 

“You’re snappy today,” he said, face lifting towards him, his eyebrows raised.

Will thought of his encounter with Walton and sighed, collapsing into the sofa opposite, forearms resting on his knees, rubbing his hand over his face. “I met with Walton this morning.”

Tom thought for a moment, before snapping his fingers, “Annoying Yale man?”

Will laughed and nodded. “And he’s as stubborn as a bull. I don’t know how to convince him.” 

Tom tilted his head and frowned in mock consideration. “I thought you had to be nice to be a salesperson.” 

Will merely narrowed his eyes, and Tom offered a grin and a wiggle of eyebrows.

“Look,” Tom said seriously, “you’d want to know what he cares about. Is he not satisfied with the price or the quality or is he stalling? What does he value most? You should tackle that first.”

Will stared at him for a moment, before shaking his head. “You should do my job.”

Tom laughed, his head throwing back. Will could only think how clear that sound was, how light and carefree it sounded. He thought that his laughter would always be what he associated with Tom: his laughter, the unworried expression he displayed, and the casual lightness in his posture. 

Tom had moved across the room, and he took out a backgammon board, placing it on the low table between them. 

“Do you play?” he asked, setting up the board and the pieces. 

Will leaned forward, intrigued. “I do. I didn’t know you did.”

“I play with Joe sometimes, but he always wins, and he says something about me being a ‘sore loser’”, Tom says with an exaggerated eye roll, while Joe said very loudly from the kitchen, “He once punched me!”

“Anyway—” here he waved airily in such a ridiculous way that Will laughed— “I hope you have better sportsmanship than him.” Tom went back to arranging the pieces, humming under his breath.

Will cocked an eyebrow. “Tom,” he said.

“Hmm?” he said, glancing up at Will unconcernedly.

“Promise you won’t punch me if you lose.”

* * *

Will, at the end, did not get punched. Though he did trounce Tom quite soundly, Tom had only glowered at the ceiling for thirty minutes, and refused to eat lunch until Joe and Will grabbed him by his limbs and dragged him to the table. But Tom had forgotten of the game as soon as Joe informed him that there was cherry pie for dessert. 

Joe Blake, Will had learned, was certainly a wonderful person. His stew was delicious, the roast beef almost melting in his mouth. He told Joe so, but Tom had snorted and said, “If you think he can cook, wait till you eat my mother’s cooking.” 

After lunch Will and Joe discussed thoroughly about Romantic period paintings, until Tom started feigning snoring. Over coffee and chocolates they talked about a number of things, ranging from Tom’s tendency to oversleep to amusing childhood stories from Joe (in which mostly include embarrassing things Tom did). 

Soon it was past five, and Will had to leave, even after a lot of complaining from Tom to stay. 

“I’ll walk you,” Tom said, when Will finally insisted on leaving. 

He bounded towards the door, hand resting on the handle, but barring his way in front of the door. 

“How long are you staying in Thornbury?” he asked, not quite meeting Will’s eyes.

“A week or more,” Will said, “though I might need more time if he was stubborn.”

Tom nodded, eyes at the ground as if contemplating something. 

“Come visit more,” he said, with a smile, turning the handle and opening the door. 

Will stepped out, smile spreading. “I will.”

“And, Will?”

Will turned, eyebrows raised.

“Bring more chocolates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the excerpt from the start of the chapter was a joke please dont yell at me <3  
> ANYWAY.  
> i shouldnt make any promises now because then i might go and break it all and you would all be very sad and i will be very sad   
> so im going to say this:   
> i will update at some point of my life.  
> whether it is tomorrow or next week or next month or next year or 10 years later (I SWEAR I WONT UPDATE 10 YEARS LATER) i have no idea, but i am going to update it  
> do not worry  
> i have told my friend to fly across an ocean to slap me if i do not update this for over a month.   
> and i trust you all to slap me virtually too   
> anyway  
> ly guys dont kill me hahah


End file.
